The Little Old Table

CREAK, little wood thing, creak, When I touch you with elbow or knee; That is the way you speak Of one who gave you to me!

You, little table, she brought— Brought me with her own hand, As she looked at me with a thought That I did not understand.

—Whoever owns it anon, And hears it, will never know What a history hangs upon This creak from long ago.